


you're already home where you feel loved

by blamefincham



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 15:34:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2817335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blamefincham/pseuds/blamefincham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac has thought Combeferre was a bit too amazing to be real since the day they met, but the more intimate little moments he gets to see, the more he’s sure his feelings are shifting. It’s different from his usual nebulous ball of platonic-sexual-romantic mostly in that it’s way, way more intense. Instead of casually observing that Combeferre’s laugh is <i>so sexy</i> in between noticing the gorgeous colour of Bossuet’s eyes and the way Bahorel is rocking his scarf, his brain has been stuck on a neverending reel of all Combeferre, all the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're already home where you feel loved

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kiyala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiyala/gifts).



> For kiyala, who requested "pining idiots who end up living together for the first time and then realize how hard that is when you're secretly in love with your roommate" and "cuddles!" Happy Holidays and hope this makes you smile :)

Courfeyrac has known the power of his persuasive abilities since he was about seven years old. He’s never been denied something he really wants, from another piece of candy to another day on his homework deadlines. Sometimes he feels guilty for using his tactics on his friends, but that’s just one more item on the list of Reasons Combeferre is the Best: he sees right through what Courfeyrac is doing, they both know it, yet he still gives Courfeyrac whatever he wants almost every time.

Combeferre doesn’t even wait for Courfeyrac to finish his rant this time. Courfeyrac’s just finished retelling the facts of the situation—Marius is moving out to move in with Cosette, leaving Courfeyrac stranded, roommateless, in an apartment he can’t afford—and hasn’t even begun to lament his situation or describe all the ramen he’s going to have to eat, when Combeferre says calmly, “You could just move in here.” 

Courfeyrac stops, mid-sentence, and looks at Combeferre (upside down, because he’s laying on the couch and sitting up would be boring). “Really? I know you like having a place to yourself, Ferre, and you’ve got all your books in the extra bedroom.” 

“There’s room for the bookshelves out here. I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it.” Combeferre stands and walks around the apartment—to the kitchen, Courfeyrac thinks, and is proven right when he hears the fridge door open. “You’re here often enough anyway.” 

Courfeyrac sits up and leans over the back of the couch. He can see into the kitchen from here; Combeferre has got two mugs out as well as the milk, which means he’s making them hot cocoa. He’s the _best_. “Can you blame me?” Courfeyrac says sweetly, batting his eyelashes. 

Combeferre gives him a Look— _the_ Look, in fact, the one that says ‘You’re not fooling me, but that doesn’t mean I’m saying no’. “Probably everyone else is smart enough to know that you’re like a stray animal; don’t feed you if they ever want you to leave.” Courfeyrac has no argument for this. His heart is easily won, and Combeferre makes a mean risotto. 

— 

Courfeyrac moves in on a Friday. He considers, briefly, bullying Combeferre into having a housewarming party, but by the time they’ve hauled all of Courfeyrac’s stuff out of his apartment and into Combeferre’s (with Marius and Cosette helping, since Courfeyrac reminded them it was their fault he was moving in the first place), all Courfeyrac wants to do is order takeout, collapse on the couch with Combeferre, and watch a movie, so that’s what they do. 

It’s a truth universally acknowledged that Courfeyrac sprawls all over whoever happens to be sitting near him at any given time, and that goes double for Combeferre. Courfeyrac pillows his head in Combeferre’s lap; Combeferre huffs out a quiet laugh and starts playing with Courfeyrac’s hair, as he knows Courfeyrac loves. 

Courfeyrac makes a happy noise and nuzzles Combeferre’s knee. This is fine, he can do this. He’s never been very sympathetic towards people who complain about being in love with their best friends, because he’s sort of low-grade attracted to—well, most people, honestly, but basically all of his friends. Courfeyrac has always had a hard time drawing a line between platonic, sexual, and romantic attraction; the more he likes someone, the more he usually finds himself attracted to them, which explains why he spends so much time flirting with his friends (well, that, and flirting is just _fun._ ) 

It’s not as if he just keeps his friends around in the hopes that they’ll eventually sleep with him—if anything, Courfeyrac sees his feelings as inevitable, since his friends are all such amazing people. At this moment he’s inclined to think Combeferre is the most amazing of them all, but that might just be his talented hands, combing through Courfeyrac’s curls and never tugging too hard. 

As the movie ends, Courfeyrac stretches, and rolls over so he’s on his back, looking up at Combeferre instead of the screen. “That movie was great, but it’s even more great that I’m so comfy and warm, and I _don’t_ have to get up and drive home,” says Courfeyrac lazily. He holds up a hand to Combeferre. “Best decision ever.” 

Combeferre high-fives him indulgently. “Even if you intend to sleep here, you will have to move and let me go eventually,” he points out. 

There’s a double meaning in that that Courfeyrac doesn’t think Combeferre intended, but that he can’t help noticing. He’s got his arms twined around Combeferre’s waist in about two seconds flat. “No,” he insists, and then gives Combeferre his puppydog eyes. There, that should quell any talk of moving, whether in the immediate future or more long-term. 

Combeferre laughs, and puts his hand over Courfeyrac’s face. “Don’t turn those on me, that’s not fair,” he complains, but Courfeyrac can hear the smile in his voice, so he licks Combeferre’s hand. Combeferre does move his hand then, but mostly so he can use it to shove Courfeyrac off his lap. “Have you regressed to childhood again?” he says drily, wiping his hand on his pants. 

“If I say yes, will you tuck me in and read me a bedtime story?” Courfeyrac coos as Combeferre stands up. Without any answer other than a vague wave, Combeferre walks off to get ready for bed, which Courfeyrac takes as an indication that he needs to try harder next time. 

— 

The trouble is, there’s a difference between hanging out with a friend you’re attracted to and _living_ with them. Courfeyrac had found Marius cute, sure, but he had always sort of looked at him like a younger brother; with Combeferre, it’s something else entirely. 

Like when they’re having breakfast together, and Courfeyrac is doing dramatic readings of letters to the editor and Combeferre pretends to be reading his own paper and ignoring him, but he hasn’t flipped a page in ten minutes, and Courfeyrac catches his quiet snorts of amusement every now and then, because they make his heart feel like it’s going to burst. 

Or like when Combeferre texts him halfway through the day, asking him to pick up a few things on his way home from work. It’s so domestic and adorable that Courfeyrac gets himself in a Pinterest wedding k-hole daydream and doesn’t get anything else done for the rest of the afternoon. 

The inciting incident, really, is a Saturday afternoon when Courfeyrac is set up on the couch in his usual weekend haze of social media—he’s typing away at three separate chat windows on his laptop, intermittently texting two people, and he’s just hung up a Skype call with his sister—and Combeferre comes in after a run. 

No one should look good after a run. Courfeyrac is _sure_ it’s against the rules. When _he_ goes for a run, he comes back feeling great, but looking splotchy and red, with his curls plastered to his forehead unattractively. On Combeferre, though, the sheen of sweat appears to _glow_ , and the old clothes he’s wearing look like they’d feel so soft under Courfeyrac’s fingertips. Or his teeth. 

“I’m in the shower,” Combeferre calls over his shoulder as he crosses the living room. Courfeyrac has to physically cover his own mouth to keep from asking if he can join. Then he sends Marius a string of sad emojis and gets _??????????_ in reply. 

Courfeyrac has thought Combeferre was a bit too amazing to be real since the day they met, but the more intimate little moments he gets to see, the more he’s sure his feelings are shifting. It’s different from his usual nebulous ball of platonic-sexual-romantic mostly in that it’s way, way more intense. Instead of casually observing that Combeferre’s laugh is _so sexy_ in between noticing the gorgeous colour of Bossuet’s eyes and the way Bahorel is rocking his scarf, his brain has been stuck on a never-ending reel of all Combeferre, all the time. 

— 

But before he does anything about it, Courfeyrac wants to be sure. It wouldn’t be fair to Combeferre, after all, to act on feelings he’s not certain of. At least, that’s what Courfeyrac tells himself when the little voice in the back of his mind suggests he’s trying to avoid the situation entirely. 

His solution is to plan a spontaneous weekend trip home. Getting out of the apartment for a couple of days will let him see if it’s out of sight, out of mind or absence makes the heart grow fonder—and he only lives a few hours’ drive from his mom and sisters, so he really should make the trip more often than he does. 

Courfeyrac has a pretty good idea that it’s the second idiom by Saturday morning, when he’s been gone for over twelve hours and still can’t quite keep a lid on the urge to work Combeferre into every conversation. His sisters notice and giggle about it; his mom only smiles at him and, as she hugs him goodbye, reminds him to be careful. 

— 

He _is_ careful. He’s the _most_ careful. That’s why it takes him another week to do something once he’s decided to do it, and why he doesn’t go the simple, direct route of using his words. 

After all, Courfeyrac reasons, this is the considerate way of doing things; rather than dumping the burden of his potentially unrequited feelings on Combeferre, if he just sort of pushes the line of what they usually do and observes Combeferre’s reaction, he’ll get better information. 

They’re sitting on the couch watching a movie, only Courfeyrac isn’t watching it so much as he’s waiting for the perfect moment. About half an hour into the movie, he takes a quick, steadying breath and wraps his arm around Combeferre’s shoulders. 

This is not an extraordinary level of contact for them. It’d be more common for Courfeyrac to rest his head against Combeferre’s arm until Combeferre wrapped it around him, but he’s trying to push the envelope on purpose today, so he switches it up. Combeferre doesn’t react, except perhaps to relax into the half-embrace a bit more. 

So, fifteen minutes later, Courfeyrac ups his game. He settles his other arm across Combeferre’s torso, leaving him effectively enveloped in a blanket of Courfeyrac. Combeferre glances at him, briefly, but puts up no resistance, and his posture is as relaxed as it usually is when they’re lounging on the couch. 

Courfeyrac’s getting impatient, now. It’s only a few minutes later when he wiggles his leg underneath Combeferre’s, and it’s this that makes Combeferre finally say something. “Feeling particularly affectionate today?” 

His tone is so neutral—even and difficult to read, as Combeferre so often is—and Courfeyrac lets out a frustrated huff of air. “Combeferre...I like you,” he admits, not even close to his usual bravado. 

Combeferre doesn’t quite pick up on it, though—or else he’s just trying to be sure in his own way, Courfeyrac doesn’t let himself think—because he just replies “I like you too, Courfeyrac,” with his eyes still mostly on the screen. 

“No, like...more than everybody else.” He steels himself, and before Combeferre can (deliberately?) misinterpret that, he adds, “As in, I’d quite like to kiss you. That kind of way.” 

Combeferre is not even pretending to watch the movie anymore. He locks eyes with Courfeyrac for a second before he says, in that same neutral voice, “Why don’t you, then?” 

Courfeyrac is not stupid enough to let a direct statement like that slip by. With how they’re sitting, cuddled together like this, he only needs to raise his hand from around Combeferre’s waist, cup his jaw, and gently angle his face until their lips brush. 

The kiss is chaste and brief, but Courfeyrac savours the explosion of butterflies in his stomach anyway. When they break apart, he knows he’s smiling wide enough to split his face in half—and Combeferre is smiling too, if not quite so widely. 

Courfeyrac wants to do it again, more than almost anything, but he also recognizes that Combeferre hasn’t said anything about how he feels, and it would be selfish to just keep pushing. Instead, he gives Combeferre a quick eskimo kiss and says, “Your turn.” 

He can feel Combeferre rolling his shoulders, the way he does before he has a difficult conversation, and Courfeyrac is hit with a sinking feeling in his stomach. But what Combeferre says is, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you date someone. Is that not something you...I’m not saying we have to jump straight to that, but it is something I’d want eventually.” 

Well, that—that’s easy. Courfeyrac’s smile resumes its earlier blinding brightness. “Yeah, because I don’t usually feel like I need to—but you’re _you_ , Ferre. Of course I’d want that.” 

Courfeyrac feels Combeferre relax in his arms, and though his smile doesn’t get bigger, there’s something different behind his eyes. Why had Courfeyrac been dragging his feet over this? Being this close to Combeferre, their lips a breath apart, feels as natural as breathing. 

This time, it’s Combeferre who closes the gap between them.

**Author's Note:**

> Note: By no means do I think all bi/pan people experience attraction in this way! It's not my intention at all to play into the whole shitty cultural narrative of "they like both/all genders > they like everyone > they're massive sluts". It's just the particular way Courfeyrac experiences things in this fic, that's all :)


End file.
